


Unwrapped

by DarthNickels



Category: Dexter (TV), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abuse of figurative language, Alternate Universe, Character Study, Criminal Profiling, Crossover, Doakes is right, Gen, Harry's questionable parenting, I hope you like metaphors, Serial Killers, Will is like catnip for weirdos, Will's profiling superpower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 03:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14150490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: The FBI is called to Miami to investigate a bizarre ritualistic murder. As usual, Will becomes more familiar than he would like.





	Unwrapped

**Author's Note:**

> I broke a lot of timelines to make this happen, sometime just pre-Season of Dexter and sometime around 1x04 for Hannibal

               The billowing plastic sheets diffuse the light, making the kill-room seem like a mirage—a distant oasis in a world of sharp edges and corners. Will stands at the entrance, taking note of the vague, blurred shapes on the other side of the barrier. He doesn’t see them, not yet.

               He’s only taking them in.

               “I need silence from here on out,” Jack Crawford has been on the scene for ten minutes and already he has taken complete control of the situation. “Not a _word_ while he works, understood?”

               There’s polite deference, with an undercurrent of jostled dignity Will knows all too well—it follows him wherever the work takes him. For now, he leaves it behind.

               He’s only concerned with one mindset right now.

               He pushes aside the plastic sheeting, and steps into another world—another mind. He sees what is there—he looks for what is not. He sees things as they are—

               As they were—

               As they have been made to be—

               _This room is my home_. A vanishing space, appearing and reappearing as needed—a child’s portal through the wardrobe. _When I am gone, it will disappear with me_. Will ran gloved fingers over the plastic-wrapped table—everything encased in plastic, hermetically sealed, protected from the deed that took place. Isolated. This is a place that exists outside of time—not a cathedral, where great works are done, but a workshop—the home of a humble craftsman.

               _My tools laid just-so_. The knives and saws still sat neatly in their leather carry-case, only one out of place—still laying where it fell, spattered with blood. It had been dropped in haste, abandoned by its wielder in a rare moment of panic. _It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I have wrapped and re-wrapped myself away from the world_

               _No one was supposed to see_.

                Will turns to the framed photos on the wall—the only objects placed _inside_ the layers and layers of protective plastic. The only witnesses to the act—but they aren’t witnesses, not really. Their eyes are dead and empty, not peering out at him from their happy, smiling photographs. They are not present—they are dead.

               Will suspects that when he asks Jack about it they will be identified, given names and histories, and listed only as missing persons, but he knows they are dead. As dead as the heap of meat lying on the table—parts which had previously been assembled in the shape of a man.

               Only the shape. _He was not a man—there are no men on my table. Only monsters_.

               The force of the thought rattles Will, forces him to grit his teeth.  He sees it now—he hears the voice, echoing through his brain, speaking with his tongue—

_I have spent hours creating your demise. Everything is just so—everything is exactly right. I am the one who puts things to right. My workshop is complete. My tools lay ready._

_Now is the time for the Work._

_The framed pictures are one of the last things you’ll ever see—I have not come to taunt you with them, with proof of your inferior skills. Rather, I must explain to you, pedagogue to pupil—hunt-master to hound— why you deserve this. You may beg, and plead, but your cries will fall on deaf ears—your fate was sealed by your own actions as much as mine. You have lived as a monster, and now you will die at the hands of another._

_I am not overly concerned with your crimes against these people, but you will die for them—at least, I will tell you this. But really, you will die for this one mistake: you assumed you were the top of the food chain, safe to prey as you pleased._

_But I am the apex predator._

_My first incision is to the neck— I want the blood that spurts from the carotid artery. I have pursued this moment for weeks, perhaps even a month—all my work has been for this, this moment when I am soaked in hot, copper-stinking gore—what contaminates this space baptizes me, washes away the darkness of my urges—I am sanctified, I am ordained, I am clean because I am righteous—_

_The hand that guides me allows only this moment—_

               “Will?”

               Jack’s voice shatters the vision, and Will falls back into himself with a jerk, panting.

               “What are we looking at?” Jack asks, solemnly. “A vigilante?”

               Will shakes his head. “No,” he says. “These are undeniably act of vigilantism, but our killer is no vigilante.”

               “Go on,” Jack commands.

               “Our killer—” Will swallows, the after-images of the kill still burned into his retina, his vision swirling with red—“our killer couldn’t give a shit about those people in the photographs. It’s likely that, outside of a select few, he doesn’t give a shit about other people at all.”

               “Then why vigilantism?” Jack demanded. “We ID’d the body—Martin Dies, suspected in three homicides in Georgia, none of them stuck. Why kill this man if not for that reason?”

               “Because he deserved it,” Will said, coldly. Jack looked at him, sideways—appraising, profiling-the-profiler, always keeping a weather eye on their bloodhound to ensure he wasn’t rabid. Will ignored the look and went on:

               “This man fit a need—he removed himself from the safety of humanity by killing. He made himself available for our killer to sate his desires on an acceptable target.”

               “Our killer has a conscious?”

               “Our killer has someone _else’s_ conscious,” Will took off his glasses, rubbing them with his shirt, trying to rub away the images of fountaining blood.

               “What does that mean?” Jack asked, examining the room. “How many men are we looking for?”

               “Just one,” Will assured him. “Only one killer was at work here, in this space—he is, and will always be alone in this ritual. The work is his, the finishing touches are him, but the bones of this structure—they are someone else’s design.”

               Jack studies him for a long moment. “This doesn’t seem like a copycat.”

               “It’s not,” Will shook his head. “Whoever guided our killer’s hands likely never took a life of his own. There is something…naïve, in the architecture of this ritual. Something aspirational.”

               Jack was silent for a long moment. “Are you suggesting someone _trained_ our psychopath—”

               “I wouldn’t diagnose him,” Will cautioned, “but yes. He was taught to hide, to be ashamed, to blend in—his disguise allowed him to fine-tune his ritual until he needs were almost palatable to his mentor. He was given an artificial sense of justice. Someone saw our killer for what he was—outside the pale of humanity—and put his dysfunction to use.”

               Jack frowned, the corners of his mouth turning downward, brow furrowing. Doubt—that was rare.

               “What makes you say that?” Jack asked, carefully.

               Will waved his hand. “Look at this, Jack—this isn’t organic. This isn’t even _informed_. This is overkill—no one as adept at what he does as our killer actually _needs_ any of this. It’s all for show—but no one’s found a body before this, so if it’s not for us…”

               “Who is it for?” Jack murmured.

               “Whoever mentored our killer found him at the right moment—when his desires and his mind were still pliable, able to be molded and shaped. His ritual was made for him—his own needs were trimmed and pruned to fit a another’s vision.”

               Jack let out a long, slow breath. “Will we find the him or his handler first?”

               “I’m not sure I’d call him a handler,” Will mused. “The level of work to conceal these crimes is for the killer’s own protection as much as his ability to serve as an assassin. The teaching would have been stern but…loving, in its own way.”

               Jack raised an eyebrow, clearly impatient, and Will pushed on: “This is the work of a seasoned expert. We could be looking an adult as old as his late forties—it’s possible his teacher may be long dead.”

               “But the lessons remain,” Jack rocked back on his heels, thinking. “That’s a strong influence, to keep our hound from turning on the lambs.”

               “Our shepherd brought a wolf into the fold,” Will murmured. “Reared him by hand. It may be easier to find him first. Our killer has been doing this for years—perhaps a decade—and there wasn’t even a suspicion of a serial killer with his profile operating in Miami. It’s possible we still won’t catch him, even with everything his kill-room will tell us.”

               “We _will_ catch him,” Jack vowed. “Tell me about the handler. Who are we looking for?”

               “Someone with both the skills and the thirst for vengeance to impart on a disturbed child,” Will said, darkly. Jack’s eyes flashed.

               “Law enforcement?”

               “Almost certainly, though I wouldn’t rule out other possibilities,” Will agreed. “Criminal prosecutors may be a fruitful avenue, or victim’s advocates.”

               “But you like a cop for this?”

               Will looked at him for a long time. “You ever chafe on your leash?”

               “Do you?”

               Will gave him a small, dry smile. “Once,” he said, darkly. “I slipped my collar.”   

               Jack gave him a long, considering look, weighing his words. “You saved a girl’s life,” he said. “Hobbs had to be put down. You were cleared to come back to the field. Was that a mistake?”

               Will shrugged. “You tell me, Jack.”

               Jack sighed. “Go back to the motel and sleep on it. I have enough on my plate— I’m going to have to tell the locals they’re being shut out of this case without tipping them off to the fact that we think one of their own is responsible.” Jack fixes him with a long, weighing look. “You start thinking that way again, you call me first, do you understand?”

               Will nods, but hopefully after a handful of aspirin and two fingers of whisky, he won’t be thinking any more for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

               There was a leak—there was always a leak—and the papers had details of the crime scene the following morning. Jack Crawford, he of the Evil Minds Museum, found their moniker for their killer a little drab; Will could appreciate a rare moment of restraint in a city like Miami.

               The Plastic Man, they called him. It was more accurate that they knew.

               Sleep had done nothing to rid Will of the crime scene—it lingered, like the taste of burnt rubber in his mouth. His brain was wrapped in cellophane, and he stared at the world through semi-transparent sheeting. His smile was fake and flimsy, an overpriced gift-shop souvenir. He was hollow inside, so hollow it ached—Will felt the other man’s emptiness eating into him, a termite chewing away vast cities of nothing in his gut.

               The only thing that kept him collapsing in on the nothingness were the hands on his shoulders, weighing him down, steering him forwards—a gift and a burden—

               “Special Agent Graham?” Will came back to reality with a start. That was Matthews, Captain of the Miami-Metro police department. “I just want you to be aware of the gravity of these charges—”

               “We are well aware, Captain,” he replied, waspishly.

               “What he means,” Jack said, stepping in to smooth things over, “is that we wouldn’t bring this possibility to you if it wasn’t something we felt confident going forward on.”

               “You think someone in my precinct is responsible for this murder—"

“Indirectly, but yes.”

Matthews clearly was not used to being interrupted: “You have to understand I find that very hard to believe.”

               “It may not be your precinct,” Will said, “it may not be someone who still works here—they could very well be deceased. We do, however, believe looking at homicide detectives is an ideal place to start.”

               “I’m not about to unseal a hundred work histories of good, upstanding cops on a _hunch_ —”

               “We don’t need a hundred—” Will started, but Jack stepped in:

“Only the ones that fit our profile.” _Let me handle this_ , his expression said clearly. “Someone established, with a good record and commendation, but still frustrated by the job—haunted by the ones that got away. They would feel hampered by rules that keep them from administering the law. Our man would also have access to traumatized children—someone who volunteered with a mentorship program, a transitional house for violent offenders, maybe even as a foster—”

Something flashed across Matthews’ face, too fast for Will to identify—it was gone in an instant, replaced by a neutral mask.

“You want me make suspects out of adoptive parents and orphans?” Matthews demanded.

               “If the lead doesn’t pan out, then we’ll move on,” it was clear Jack was losing his patience—as director of the BSU, he wasn’t _obligated_ to be courteous when commandeering resources. “But we’ll do our due diligence first.”

               Matthews glowered, but he knew he was boxed in. “I’ll have the files pulled—”

               “Our techs will start working on it,” Jack interrupted, smoothly. “The sooner they have access, the sooner they’ll be finished and out of your hair.”

               Matthews’ lip curled. “ _Fine_. Is there anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?”

               “We’ll let you know,” Jack replied, pleasantly.

* * *

 

               Forensics didn’t find anything at the crime scene—Will suspected they wouldn’t.

               “No nothing,” Price was saying, with something close to admiration. “Even without a chance for clean-up. Not a hair, a fiber, a fingerprint, even the _shoe prints_ are indistinct—it’s like he knew he’d get surprised.”

               “He’s always ready for the possibility,” Will murmured.

               “I thought these guys were supposed to be cocky,” Katz said, not looking up from her meticulous black-light search. “Self-assured, arrogant, narcissists—”

               “If he was, it was hammered out of him,” Will explained, watching her work.

               “Disciplined,” Jack volunteered.

               “Well trained,” Will countered, darkly. “The usual profiles won’t work here, he’s not market standard. Someone’s gone in and altered the code.”

               “You think somebody broke the warranty on Mr. Shrinkwrap?” Price asked.

               “The Plastic Man,” Zellar corrected him.

               “I know, and I hate it—they never let _us_ name these guys—”

               “No nicknames,” Jack cut him off, severely. “Is there anything we can accomplish here that’s actually productive?”

               Katz shook her head. “I could run down where these pictures came from—if they’re out of the family’s private collection, we’ll know he had access.”

               “Good,” Jack nodded. “Get the make on the printer he used. Anything else?”

               Katz held out her hands, apologetically. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’ve got nothing.”

               Jack’s breath hissed through his clenched teeth. “Fine. Start taking it down. We’ll—”

               “No,” Will said, suddenly. “Leave it up.”

               Jack turned to him, surprised. “You said we wouldn’t find much—”

               “We won’t,” Will agreed.

               Jack considered for a long moment. “You want to poke him with it.”

               Will nodded. “This place was only supposed to exist for a brief moment—it shouldn’t have been here this long.”

               “Brigadoon,” Price muttered under his breath.

               “The take-down is just as important as the set-up,” Will went on, “just as important as the actual act itself. Leaving it unfinished…it will gnaw at him, more than our hunt for him ever would.”

               “We leave a buoy on our shark so he can’t dive,” Jack said, thoughtfully.

               “He has too much control to kill again,” Will pressed. “He could very well be capable of going to ground until the storm has passed, given how he manages his urges. This is the only hook we have in him.”

               “It’s too much to hope he’ll come back here,” Jack sighed.

               “He won’t come back—but he’ll be off balance.”

“Making our quarry easy to flush,” Jack was already moving. “I want round the clock surveillance on the off chance he does come back, at least two uniforms at all times…”

* * *

 

Debra Morgan hammered on the door to her brother’s apartment. “Dex!” she shouted. “Open the goddamn door! I come bearing gifts!”

               She heard the chain slide back, and the door opened—there was Dexter, serious and no-fun, as usual. “It’s a little late for this,” he said, severely.

               “Quit being fucking moody,” she said, pushing her way in. “I’ve got something that will cheer you right the fuck _up_.”

               He didn’t say it out loud, but she could hear the ‘I doubt it’ in his expression. “Feast your eyes,” she said, shoving a manila folder into his hands.

               Dexter raised an eyebrow. “ ‘More work’ is not my idea of a gift.”

               “Open it, asshole,” she urged. He complied—both eyebrows raised.

               “It’s the motherfucking profile on the Plastic Man,” Deb said, giddily.

               “How did you get this?” Dexter asked, heavily suspicious. Then, his eyes narrowed further: “why are you showing it to me?”

               “Matthews gave it to me,” Deb said, waving her hands, “just fucking read it—”

               “Matthews undermined an FBI investigation?” Dexter asked, and Deb threw up her hands.

               “Jesus Christ, Dexter, _please_ take the stick out of your ass for one goddamn second and just read the fucking thing!”

“Tell me why,” he insisted, and Deb rolled her eyes.

“Because he wants to help me get out of Vice,” she said. “He knows how much I hate it. I wanna be a detective—”

_Matthews had a strange look in his eye as he passed the file to her—distant, veiled, something she’d never seen before in the straight-talking Chief of Police. “Your father was a good cop, Deb,” he told her, urgently. “And he was a good man. He knew what he was doing.” He looked her straight in the eye and repeated himself:_

_“He knew what he was doing. Don’t forget that.”_

“—and, you know,” she shrugged. “You get hunches, Dex. Maybe, once the FBI stops shutting us out, we can help…”

Dexter watched her, not saying anything—then looked down and began flipping through the papers. He was definitely weird tonight—usually he was all over shit like this, in his element; but now he seemed almost _tense_. Then:

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dexter half-whispered, under his breath.

“I know, right?” She said. “It’s deeply fucked up stuff. That Special Agent What’s=his-face they brought in writes like a fuckin’ English lit major—” she stopped short. Dexter looked like a deer in the headlights.

“What is it?” she asked.

“How—” Dexter stopped short, as if he couldn’t wrap his brain around what he was reading. “How the _fuck_ could he know all that?”

“You tell me,” Deb pressed. “You get weird hunches too.”

“Not like this,” Dexter said. “This is—unbelievable—” he looked up at her, and his expression flattened—sliding back to normal with an almost audible _click_.

“It’s all nonsense, Deb,” he said. There was the self-assured asshole she knew. “This is total overreach. It’s about as scientific as a cold-reading.”

“They said this guy’s the best,” Deb refuted, flatly. Something occurred to her. “Hey—you’re not taking this _personally_ , are you?”

Dexter stiffened. “Why would I?”

“There’s some fucked up suppositions in there about it being a foster kid,” Deb said, quietly.

Dexter looked at her with one of those hard-to-read expressions—like his face was just a deer blind, and the real Dexter was peeking at her from behind his eyes. “Its only one of multiple possibilities. I wouldn’t give it too much weight—”

“But you do,” she sighed. “Goddamnit. I didn’t even think. I’m sorry, Dex.”

He offered a small, tight-lipped smile: “Seriously, Deb, don’t worry about it—in fact, don’t even think about it—”

Deb reached out and clasped his shoulder. “You’re my brother,” she said, seriously, “no adjectives, end of story. Harry felt the same way.”

Dexter’s eyes wandered back to the file with that same, distant expression.

“Look,” she said, reaching for the file, “I clearly fucked up here. We’re not even on this case—if you want to sit this one out, that’s totally—”

“No—” Dexter pulled the folder back towards himself. “I mean—I’d like to take a look at it if you don’t mind. It’s just—a lot to digest. Can I hang on to this for a while?”

“Sure,” Deb shrugged. “Let it percolate. But when you get that eureka moment—”

“You’ll be the first to know,” he promised her.

* * *

 

It was late—and the hour was later than Debra knew. She stayed for another half-hour, talking about this and that, before heading back to her place for the night. Dexter waited until he heard the door click shut behind her, heard her soft footsteps passing beyond his window—

He tore the file open. Here it was, laid out for everyone to see. Dexter’s Doom. Dexter’s Demise. Dexter Done-for.

Dexter Dissected.

There it was, everything he’d kept confined to the darkness, subjected to the harsh fluorescent of the interrogation room—somehow even more unsightly without its cloak of shadows.

His kill room had been standing for days now, dirty and blood-spattered, gnawing at him like a hangnail packed with dirt, a curtain dramatically pulled back on an unsuspecting bather—and now this…

Dexter ran a finger over the neatly-typed indictment. He imagined the words forming an accusing finger, pointed directly at him—a neon sign glowing above his head.

               He shouldn’t look. There was nothing in there he didn’t already know.

               There were things in there he probably didn’t _want_ to know…

               He had to look. He could feel the target on his back, the glowing spot on his forehead—10 points to disable, 15 points if they hit his heart, 20 points if Deb could put a slug from her service piece right between his eyes. The hunt was already on, FBI’s bloodhound had his scent in his nose. How long did he have before Special Agent Will Graham was baying up his tree?

Dexter sat at his desk. He pushed aside his laptop, giving the open file folder center stage.

He had to know—everything.

* * *

 

Jack had a visitor. He looked up from Will’s profile, studying the man over his glasses. “We’ve met before,” he said.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” the man said, offering a hand. “James Doakes.”

“DC is a small place,” Jack said, accepting the handshake. “The federal government is even smaller. What can I do for you?”

Doakes looked like he was choosing his words carefully. “I understand you’ve decided to take the case out of our hands for the time being.”

“You’d like me to reconsider?” Jack asked, amused. Doakes held up his hands.

“I’m not trying to backseat drive the FBI,” he said, seriously, “but in the event you opened things up to a joint task force—I’d like to be on it.”

Jack folded his hands, waiting. “Well?” he asked. “Why should it be you? You came here with a pitch.”

“Miami is my city,” Doakes answered, without preamble. “The system only works if everyone is in on it. I think I can be an asset to you when it comes to finding this guy—and shutting this thing down before it gets out of hand.”

“You could have gone to Quantico and joined the Bureau if you were any good at profiling,” Jack said, pointedly. Doakes smiled, easily deflecting the barb:

“I paid my dues to Uncle Sam—saw enough of the greater DC commuting area. Miami is _my_ city.”

“What you’re asking me is totally unorthodox,” Jack said, severely. “Luckily for you, I’m a fan of the unorthodox.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You saw the crime scene photos before I snatched them away?”

“I don’t need to,” Doakes said, grimly. “I was first detective on the scene. It was some sick fuckin’ shit—if you’ll uh, pardon the language.”

“Exceptionally sick shit,” Jack agreed. “How about this—you write me your own profile. If it’s as good—or better—than what I’ve got here,” he tapped his own manila folder for emphasis, “then I’ll consider opening the case up to Miami-Metro.”

Doakes’ expression—pointed, severe—broke into a smile. “Thank you, Agent Crawford. I’ll have it on your desk by start of day tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” Jack said—and he meant it.

* * *

 

               “What do you think they’re doing in there?” Deb asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

               “Fed stuff,” Masuka shrugged, leaning against the break room counter. “Spooky men-in-black shit.”

               “Maybe that Will Graham guy is an alien,” Deb teased, waggling her fingers. “It would explain why he’s so goddamn weird.”

               “This is fuckin ridiculous,” Angel muttered. “We’re shut out of our own case in our own goddamn house.” He glowered out the door, as if his stare could pierce through the walls to the room where the FBI was conspiring to poach from Miami-Metro’s land.

               “The fed giveth, and the fed taketh away,” Masuka shrugged. “Word is the forensics report was a bust, but they didn’t even give Dex a chance to get his red yarn out, so who knows.” He glanced over at Deb: “where is your blood brother, anyway?”

               Deb shrugged. “He finished his case backlog, and the FBI kicked him out of the only party in town, so he took an early day.”

               “Smart man,” Masuka nodded. “We all might as well fuck off—”

               “You should, in general, fuck off—” Deb started, but stopped short. An uncomfortable silence settled over the breakroom—the silence that only comes with the object of gossip suddenly appears among the gossipers.

               “Hi,” Will Graham offered, without enthusiasm or eye contact.

               “Hi,” Deb returned, awkwardly. “How’s it going in there?”

               Will poured himself a cup of coffee, raising the pot high and watching it cascade down into his mug. “It goes,” he murmured. “It goes on, and on, and on.”

               He did not explain further. He took his coffee and left.

               “What the _fuck_ ,” Deb asked, somewhere between a whisper and a nervous laugh. “What the fuck was _that_?”

               “Way above our paygrade,” Masuka said, eyebrows raised.

               “They got their own crazy in their trying to catch our crazy,” Angel said, shaking his head. “In our own fucking house. Disrespectful.”

               “Trampled under the boot of big government,” Masuka added, sympathetically. “Of course, you know some people are into that kind of—”

               “Gonna stop you there,” Deb cut him off, wearily. “We catch your fuckin drift.”  

* * *

 

The elevator was awkwardly silent—the silence of two strangers trapped in an intimate space with nowhere to look but each other. Not that Doakes was looking at his companion—or the laminate clipped to her jacket reading F-B-I in bold blue letters. He was leaning, just a hair too casual, hoping to see if the sheaf of papers her companion was holding had anything—

“Peaking?” the woman asked, with a raised eyebrow. Doakes smiled, ruefully.

“Caught me red-handed,” he admitted. “Can you blame me, though?”

“I won’t tell,” she promised him, playfully. “You’re the sergeant, aren’t you?”

“James Doakes,” he introduced himself, offering a hand. “You must be Katz.”

“Reading my nametag,” she said, shifting her papers to accept his handshake. “Very observant.”

“We’re detectives too, you know,” he said, pointedly. It was her turn to offer an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. The order to shut you guys out came from on high.” The elevator doors opened, and she stepped off—then turned to him. “Hey,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I heard your coffee is way better than the weak shit they’re bringing in for us,” she shifted her weight, standing with a hip out. “Wanna grab a cup?”

“Break room’s this way,” Doakes said, inclining his head. “Be my guest.”

They walked past the rows of desks in the bullpen, when a flash of movement caught Doakes’ eye—sliding into the lab, like he didn’t have any right to be there—

“What the fuck are you sneaking around for, Morgan?” Doakes called, his voice easily carrying across the room. Morgan froze—as if he really had been trying to avoid detection. He was wearing that goddamn shit-brown thermal of his— _do some fuckin laundry, asshole_ , Doakes smoldered. 

He knew the thought was irrational. He knew it was totally disproportionate to this or any other encounter he’d ever had Morgan.

He knew that, but looking at Morgan was like getting fifty-thousand-motherfucking volts straight to the amygdala. It made his instinct scream like a goddamn fucking tornado siren every time that creep slipped past him. That warning had never been wrong, it kept him alive and it put predators behind bars—he didn’t plan on ignoring it anytime soon. Dexter Morgan was _fake_ —he was fake, fake, fake, all the way down to his bones. It wasn’t even skin deep, his dumb fuckin persona sat on the surface like a latex gimp suit. Morgan only ever pulled down the zipper to wink at him, the fucking prick.

People only faked that much when they had something to hide.

“Just left a few things here, Sergeant,” Morgan replied, just a hair too slowly—Morgan was never slow on the draw. He was all breezy smiles and easy replies—too goddamn easy. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Then go on,” Doakes ordered, waving his hand. “Fuckin get it and leave.” Morgan gave him another one of those werido smiles, and disappeared into his lab.

“Wow,” Katz said, and Doakes felt a little embarrassed—he’d half-forgotten she was there. “Little bit of a hostile work environment, huh?”

“Trust me,” he told her, “if you worked here, you’d feel the same way.” He poured her a cup of coffee in a slightly awkward stalemate, but she accepted the Styrofoam cup with enthusiasm.

“Smells like a long night,” she said, wryly. “What’ve you got cooking?”

“Oh, I’m off the clock,” Doakes admitted, taking a long pull of his coffee. “Working on a personal project.”

“Your cover letter for Jack?” Katz asked. Doakes blinked. She had a good eye. He wondered if she even bothered with a microscope, or if she found millimeter-long hairs and flecks of paint freehand.

“Got me again.” He studied her over the edge of his cup, weighing his next words carefully—“not sure if I can punch at Will Graham’s weight.”

“Few can,” Katz sounded fond. “He’s got a real gift.”

“The Psycho Whisperer,” Doakes joked, but her face turned pinched and unhappy. “Sorry—I didn’t—”

“People call him worse,” Katz said, deeply unhappy. “It’s not a crime to be good at your job.”

“It sure feels that way sometimes,” Doakes said, thinking of Morgan and the whine of danger no one else could hear. “You have to admit what he does is a little—”

“Fucking weird?” Katz finished, eyebrow cocked. “Yeah, but who doesn’t get a little weird from all this shit?”

“Fair enough.” They drank in silence for a moment. Katz seemed to be considering something.

“I won’t tell you anything about the case,” she said. “There are rules, you know.” She held up a finger. “But—this coffee fucking _delivers_ , so I will tell you a little bit about why Will Graham is so good at what he does.”

“A hint,” Doakes smiled. “Lay it on me.”

Katz pushed her long hair back, taking a moment to choose her words carefully. “Most people, they take the evidence and they try to work their way inside,” she said. “Break the perp open and see if they can put them back together. Will—he knows them, crawls up inside them and sees the parts still moving. You get a better picture, that way—the difference between taxidermy and a live specimen.” She sipped her coffee, and added “by the end of it, I think he knows them even better than they know themselves.”

“Sounds more of a psychiatrist than a profiler.”

“Shrinks are clinical, distant observers. Will gets his hands dirty—elbow deep in their dysfunction.”

Doakes nodded. “They say he can think like them.”

“He can,” Katz admitted, “but I don’t know if I recommend that—the wear and tear is fucking considerable.” She frowns, and for a moment she’s far away.

“It’s like—even when we catch these guys, most people only see a Picasso painting. Will’s the only one who can move the features back into place until he’s looking at a person again.”

Doakes chewed that over, thoughtfully. “I went music over art history in undergrad.”

“I got a C because I said I hated Pollock,” Katz said, and they laughed.

Doakes liked the feds’ CSI—he’d be sorry to see her go. She was good conversation. So good, in fact, he didn’t notice that Morgan had emerged from his lab and stopped mid-skulk outside the breakroom—that he moved to the shadows and lurked there—

\--listening to everything Beverley Katz said about Will Graham with predatory intent.

* * *

 

Will awoke slowly, gently floating to consciousness. The light was hazy, it rippled like water as he came to the surface—

Or like sheets of plastic—

His heart hammered in his chest and he struggled, thrashing against the layers of cellophane holding him to the bed. It was useless—he knew it was useless—but he struggled all the same. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath came in desperate, panicked gasps. He must have been drugged; he had a few hazy memories—the barest flash of warning, the hand over his mouth, the burning sensation of a needle sliding into his neck…

 _I was drugged_. The drug seemed to be lingering in his system—his vision was blurred, even more than the absence of his glasses could explain. The shapes of his surroundings were at once familiar and unfamiliar, every object painstakingly wrapped, rubber sheets hung like grim tapestries from the walls. And there, on the mantle—

A framed portrait of the Hobbs family—

“You know so much about me,” Will started at the voice—he could see a figure, at the very corner of his perception, standing just out of the light. “It seems only fair I did a little digging into you.” Will strained, but the bonds that held his head were too tight—

“Stop,” the voice commanded, and two rubber-gloved gripped Will’s head firmly, holding him in place. “You’ve already seen enough of me.”

Will froze. “It’s you.”

“I would introduce myself, but what else can I say? We’re already so familiar.”

Will tried to shake his head, as if he could shake off the lingering traces of the drug fogging his perception. “This is wrong. You _hunt_ men like Hobbs,” he slurred. “You don’t avenge them.”

“Not usually, no. But I could make an exception…”

“You can’t,” Will cut him off. “All the theatre in the world can’t change that. Do you think this will frighten me?”

Will felt something cold and sharp rest against neck, right where his pulse beat a panicked tattoo: “It should.”

Will raised his chin, just as much as the bonds would allow. “I’ll spare you the indignity of calling your bluff.”

The blade left his throat, and now hung suspended over his chest—rubber gloves tucked into plastic sleeves poised to plunge the knife into Will’s chest. “How can you be sure?”

“You were made,” Will grated. “For a singular purpose. The process of your forging made you rigid and unyielding. You can’t change. You can’t evolve. You are _stuck_.”

The knife hung in midair for a second—which, for all his confidence, seemed like a very long time to Will—before vanishing again. Will heard the squeak of synthetic garments, and when the voice spoke again it was level with Will.

“Nobody has ever seen me before,” the Plastic Man said. The bluster was gone from his voice now—he sounded level, almost reasonable. “You have to understand that it made me a little…edgy.”

“Somebody did,” Will said. “Somebody spent long, loving hours whittling away at you until you were pleasing shape—”

“Like that,” he cut Will off. “How can you _possibly_ fucking _know_ about that?”

Will’s smile was crooked: “I can’t help but see. They call it a gift.”

The man didn’t answer for a long moment. “I don’t fit a profile,” he finally said. “I worked a very long time to be sure of that. There is no one, monster or man, quite like me,” Will heard him shift position slightly, leaning in closer: “but you—one look at my kill room and you know things…”

“Things you don’t even know about yourself,” Will said, with sudden clarity. “Did you—did you make this for me so I’d _psychoanalyze_ you?”

The voice was silent.

“I’m not a psychiatrist—there have to be easier ways—”

“I read your profile,” Will heard a sound like a gloved fist clenching. “It was—accurate. But it wasn’t enough.”

Will felt a bubble of hysteria in his chest. “It may be a little late in your career to start pursuing therapy—”

“Don’t mock me,” the man hissed.

“How many lives can you take before you want a do-over? Is it twenty? Forty? _Eighty_ —?”

The hands grabbed Will roughly by the face, forcing his gaze back to the Hobbs portrait: “What I do is only different from what you do in the most superficial ways,” he snarled. “I live among you. I coexist with you. I go through and I pick off the parasites to satisfy my needs. My arrangement with humanity is _mutually_ beneficial.”

“Is that what you were taught?” Will asked. “Or is that what you tell yourself to explain why they deserve death and you don’t?”

The man didn’t answer for a long moment. “My mentor is gone,” he said, quietly. “He left me a Code to live by—all of the answers I would ever need. But lately I find myself in need of…something more.”

“You want me to soothe your dead man’s conscious?” Will asked, incredulous.

“I want you to answer my questions.”

“By all means,” Will said. “Ask away.” He could run out the clock easily—it must have taken hours to set up the room. Jack would notice…

Will heard a sliding sound, and when the voice spoke again, it was coming from the opposite direction—as if the man was sitting facing away from him: “You said I could never change.”

Will didn’t answer. He waited.

“What if…” the voice trailed off. It now sounded very small: “What if I wanted to?”

Will blinked. “Do you?”

Another long pause. “Yes.” Then: “No.” The man thumped his head against the plastic-covered mattress: “I don’t know. I’ve never not _known_ before.”

Will paused, weighing the implications. “Do you want to stop?”

“No…”

“But?”

“But it’s not enough anymore. I’ve never wanted anything else. I don’t think I’ve ever actually wanted. Just—needed.” There was a pause. Then, almost child-like: “I don’t like it.”

This was surreal. Will wondered if he was dreaming, or in a drug-induced hallucination. The strangest thing about it was that he felt compelled to answer: “Do you think you could be different from what you were made into?”

A pause: “Maybe.”

“Better or worse?”

“I think you know how much worse I could be,” Will heard a smile that was more like a flash of teeth in those words.

“Why is less-worse is not enough anymore?”

Will heard the man come to his feet, and then begin to pace behind him. “There’s a reason no one’s ever seen me before, Special Agent,” he said, pedantically. “My disguise is very, very good. I have worn it for so long—no one has ever seen me without it.”

“ ‘He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it’,” Will murmured.

“That hasn’t happened for me,” the man said. “It’s heavy. It chafes. I want to take it off.”

               Will didn’t answer—the pacing increased, agitated.

“I want to take it off,” he repeated, “but if I take it off then the rest of it goes away, and I—” he stopped. “I don’t want that. I want to be normal. I want to be myself. Trying to be both…”

“Will crack you in half,” Will finished. “The center cannot hold, the blood-dimmed tide loosed upon your world, the ceremony of innocence drowned.”

“I’m glad you appreciate the gravity of my situation.”

“Blithe deflection won’t get you anywhere with me,” Will chided.

There was a long moment of silence. When the man spoke again, it was as if the words were being pulled out of him, one by one: “My—mentor—he knew it was fake. He taught me everything—the motions, the words, the expressions. He said…” the man trailed off, then pressed on in a rush: “he said that the feelings would follow the actions.”

Will blinked. “You want to fake it ‘till you make it?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I’m asking _you_ ,” he said, dangerously quiet.

Will’s mouth moved, but he was at a loss for words. Geppetto wanted an avenging angel. Pinocchio would rather be a real boy. “There are behavioral scientists who would tentatively agree—”

“I’m not asking a behavioral scientist,” the man thundered. “You _know_ me! Tell me!”

Will laughed, totally without humor—the situation was absurd, but it was the furthest thing from funny. “What I do isn’t _magic_. I can’t—cure your trauma—”

“You said—”

“You want suggestions? Turn yourself in and plea-bargain your way down from lethal injection to the care of a state psychiatric hospital.”

“Not an option. Try again,” the man said, icy-cold. Will laughed again.

“What did you think I’d say? Psychedelics in the desert? Hot yoga and primal screams—?”

“Shut up,” the man grated. “Shut up.” He stood over will, towering, his looming presence casting a shadow across Will’s body. “This was a waste of my time.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that—admitting you need help is the first step towards—"

“Shut up or I’ll cut the tongue right out of your mouth,” the man hissed, and Will complied.

The minutes ticked by, with only a few vague sounds behind Will to give him a clue as to what was happening—the rustle of plastic sheeting, the creak of leather, the faint clink of delicate metal tools bouncing against each other.

 “One more question,” the declaration came suddenly, as if the man was forcing it out before he could stop himself.

Will waited, patiently, as the man gathered himself.

“Will I ever be anything but empty?”

He hadn’t expected that.

“I’m sorry,” Will found, bizarrely, that he really meant it. “I don’t know. I only know that you are, and that it _aches_.”

 He was burdened with sight, with what Bloom at Georgetown had called ‘pure’ empathy even though it left him feeling grimy and stained—he could not help but see, thought followed sight, and the feelings came from thought. He felt along with the monsters he hunted, but he never felt _for_ them. Certainly not _pity_. He felt it now—the feeling filled the room, refracted off the slick, plastic-wrapped surfaces. It echoed in the silence.  

“If it comforts you,” Will said, in a softer tone, “feeling the absence is feeling _something_.”

“Huh,” the man said. The soles of his rubber boots squeaked as he rocked back on his heels. “Hm. That’s interesting.” He was silent again, thoughtfully chewing the words over. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

“Always glad to help serve public,” Will couldn’t hold back the parting shot.

“I see why you’re such a popular consultant,” Will felt the sharp pain of the needle lancing his neck once again. “Thank you, Special Agent Graham. I’ve appreciated your insight.”

Will opened his mouth, but was unable to formulate the words.

“You can dream safe,” the Plastic Man assured him, “we won’t meet again.”

Will’s eyes fluttered, and he fell into darkness

* * *

 

Hours later Will sat in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a shock blanket, while a somewhat disinterested EMT checked his pupil dilation. Jack Crawford hovered over him, like an indignant mother hen.

But then, this wasn’t the first time a fox had slipped past his watch. Last time, he’d lost a chick.

“Jack, I’m fine,” Will assured him. “I’m just groggy and stiff.”

“He had you,” Jack said. His voice was perfectly level, but Will could feel the flames of righteous anger smoldering beneath it. “He had you, and he let you go. Why would he do that?”

“He got what he wanted from me,” Will said.

“What was that?”

“Insight.” Will offered a wistful half-smile. “The same thing that makes me so attractive to psychiatrists also makes me popular with psychopaths. A thin line between the two, it seems.”

Jack gave him a long, considering look. “What did he talk about?”

“How what we do and what he does are separated by another one of those fine, fine lines,” Will said.

“Well, I hope you didn’t pay any attention to that, because it’s bullshit,” Jack said, severely. “So he tried to justify himself to you. Anything else?”

Will shook his head. “He drugged me twice—things are a little hazy—”

“Don’t force it. Tell me what you do remember.”

Will sighed, rubbing his forehead. “He asked me if he’d ever—feel anything real. Organic.”

“He wanted you to help him stop?” Jack asked, incredulous. Will shook his head.

“He’s very familiar with death. Now I think he’s curious about life.”

Jack chewed the idea over. “Will he come for you again?”

Will shrugged. “I didn’t get that impression.”

“But he didn’t get what he wanted from you.”

Will looked up at Jack. “He’s a creature born of need. It’s not possible for him to sate his desires—he would cease to exist.”

Jack rocked back his on his heels, calculating his next move. “You’re getting a protective detail,” he said, “don’t argue with me, Will, it’s already done. I’ll need a statement from you on last night—”

“It won’t be much,” Will said. “No names, no places, no mention of significant others—I never even saw him.”

Jack sighed. “Do what you can,” he said. “We’ll go from there—”

His phone buzzed to life, and it was at his ear in an instant. “What’ve you got?” Jack listened, intently, and Will saw a rare flash of surprise flit across his face.

“We’ll be there,” he said, curtly. He lowered the phone, staring at Will with an unreadable expression.

“We found our man,” he said, gravely.

* * *

 

Once again, Will found himself among billowing sheets of plastic, searching for patterns in the spatter of blood—like a rust-red Rorschach blot. _What do you see?_

“He tried to wrap himself,” Katz was saying, “but couldn’t get any higher than the waist—” the body lay motionless on its kitchen-table-turned mortuary slab, a rubber sheet serving as an altar cloth. The body was draped in more plastic sheeting, with a knife piercing the outside. “—quick thrust to the heart, and that was that.”

“Pierced the heart he didn’t have,” Will muttered.

“Suicide,” Jack frowned. “It seems unlikely.”

Katz shrugged. “The hair and prints matches what we found in Will’s hotel room— _inside_ the plastic sheeting. This is our guy—Ralph Stengal, the Plastic Man. Seems straightforward to me.”

“Uniforms canvassed the neighbors,” Jack said, looking at Will. “Stengal grew up in this house with his father—fired from the sheriff’s department after one too many excessive force complaints, worked as a security guard to make ends meet. Used to beat the shit out of him. Lived alone after his father’s death, kept to himself—”

“No friends, no significant others, always a little off,” Will said, filling in the blanks for himself. “What was the day job?”

“Worked as an assistant manager at a pig farm about an hour out of town,” Jack answered. “Would have given him access to m99—which is, coincidentally, the drug that showed up on your tox screen.”

“You don’t believe in coincidences,” Will muttered.

“I sure as hell don’t,” Jack replied.

Will shook his head. “It can’t be this easy.”

“You were his last chance at making a connection,” Jack said. “When that fell through, what else was there?”

“It almost makes sense—but something doesn’t smell right.”

“That’s whatever’s in the back yard,” Price said, leaning in from the door. “We’ve got bodies back here, Jack—and if the cadaver dogs are any good, we have quite a few.”

Jack turned to Will, expectantly. When Will didn’t say anything, he pressed him: “The profile fits. The evidence fits. What’s missing?”

“These are pieces from different puzzles,” Will insisted, “jammed together with brute force. They were _made_ to fit. This isn’t over. I need to stay here—” Will stopped short at the look on Jack’s face.

“You can’t let these things get to you,” Jack said, softly. “Ralph Stengal took himself out of this world because he knew he didn’t belong—not because of anything you said. Justice was served, Will.”

“That’s not what concerns me—”

“I’m also afraid that I do have a duty to manage resources,” Jack sighed. “I got a call from Baltimore this morning. Frederick Chilton thinks one of his patients is the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Will blinked. “And you believe that?”

“Not for a minute. But I want a second opinion,” Jack said. “Lundy’s en route, he owes me a favor. He’ll tie up any loose ends here. Our plane leaves early tomorrow.”

Will frowned. He opened his mouth to object, but stopped. Nothing in Miami felt real to him. Why should this ending be anything but artificial?

“This man can’t do any more harm,” Jack said, firmly. “But the Ripper doesn’t have a code of conduct—and he could still be at large. That’s our priority now.”

Will sighed. “Fine,” he relented. “Fine.” Then— “but I want to touch base with Lundy on this. If this isn’t finished—”

“We’ll come back and wrap it up,” Jack agreed. “Nice and tidy.”

* * *

 

The last of the FBI underlings were packing their things, and Miami-Metro finally had their office to themselves. Dexter watched them out of the corner of his eye, too casual to be genuine.

He turned, switching over to a search engine. “The Chesapeake Ripper”, he murmured as he typed.

Call it a morbid curiosity.


End file.
